Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appear
Re-clothed in fresh and verdant diaper.
Thawed are the snows, and now the lusty Spring
Gives to each mead a neat enameling.
The palms put forth their gems, and every tree
Now swaggers in her leafy gallantry.
The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings,
With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.
What gentle winds perspire! As if here
Never had been the Northern Plunderer
To strip the trees, and fields, to their distress,
Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.
And look how, when a frantic storm doth tear
A stubborn oak, or holm (long growing there),
But lulled to calmness then succeeds a breeze
That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees;
So when this war (which tempest-like doth spoil
Our salt, our corn, our honey, wine, and oil)
Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast
His inconsiderate frenzy off at last,
The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,
Bring in her bill, once more, the Branch of Peace.